Sword of Ice & Fire
by hcdevid
Summary: Illya makes a wish upon the Holy Grail to live happily with her Onii-chan. Unforunately, they are both born during Robert's Rebellion to the blood of Old Valyria. Heaven's Feel / Illya Route Shirou. R plus L equals J. Shirou is reincarnated as Jon Snow.
1. Born in Fire

**Chapter 1 – Born in Fire**

 _Illya, my daughter…what do you wish for from the bottom of your heart? Now that the war is over, what would you seek? I want to hear what you think, honestly and sincerely._

* * *

"Absolutely not, Rhaenys! You are a princess of the Targaryen family, and it is the height of folly for you to go unprotected."

Illya fumed at being denied her latest request. It's not like she was a child! _Though she was in the body of one_. Still though, she was a magus! Victor of a Holy Grail War! _Technically last man standing…or would it be last girl?_

She'd been tortured since she was a child by her past life's family to become the vessel for the Holy Grail. During the war, she had been the most feared master for her unparalleled control of Berserker. Any normal magus would have died from the continual prana cost required to keep him under control. Death had stalked every corner of her life, and it was "unsafe" for her to go somewhere unprotected? _Papa and Mama have never let me leave the Red Keep_.

"But Mama— "

"No. And if you keep this up, you will not be allowed to come with your father and I to Harrenhal for the tourney in a few weeks. Furthermore, Septa Annila has informed me you have been skipping your lessons. Perhaps you could explain to me where you have been?"

"Other children my age don't have to attend lessons yet! Besides, Ser Jaime told me I was already smarter than people four times my age."

"Other children of your age don't have a mind as sharp as you," proclaimed her Mama. Elia Martell crossed her arms and levelled a stern glare at her wayward daughter, evoking flashbacks of her previous mother in Illya's mind. "The good septa is of the opinion that you are the smartest child she has ever had the pleasure of instructing, while also quite possibly being the laziest. The former is excellent, the latter something which I have every intention of changing by the time you come of age. Now, the Septa is waiting in the usual room, and I expect you to make your way there immediately."

Illya grumbled to herself as she picked herself forwards, short legs on her three-year-old body toddling in front of the other, one foot at a time. _Will I look more like Mama or Papa in this body when I'm older?_ Either would be fine with her. Mama had dark skin that exuded a sensual quality, contrasting with her delicate nature. Papa on the other hand had both white skin and hair of such an extreme shade that if one was in a dark room at night, he might be mistaken for a spirit.

 _Which kind of girl did Shirou like?_ Illya tried to think of the women in her brother's life to determine a working ideal. She still had her wishcraft ability, and now that she had time, she might be able to figure out how to alter her body as it grew, thanks to the absurd prana output her new body had.

 _Saber was very pretty, and she had almost-white blonde hair…on the other hand both Sakura & Rin had dark hair…But Sakura's hair was purple, and purple is exotic, just like white is exotic, so does that mean I should keep my white hair? If I keep my white hair, I'll also get to look like my first mama! Does that mean I should try to grow a body like mama #1 also?_

 _That Sakura girl who always was following him around definitely had big breasts. But on the other hand…Saber & Rin didn't have any at all. Servant Rider did though…and she was the one who stole his virginity._ Illya paused her walking to wonder if she should've gotten revenge on Rider. _After all, the big sister has to guard her little brother's chastity!_

Thoughts about her little brother made her morose, as she wondered how long it would be until she saw him again. _I know he isn't born yet, but will he remember anything when he is. How much of his mind and soul was left by the end? What does that mean for what he will be like when he's reincarnated?_

 _Screech screech_.

Someone must have been working with metal nearby, probably one of the men-at-arms or the blacksmith? Perhaps they were maintaining a sword?.

 _Screech screech_.

Illya shuddered and picked up her pace. She had to get away. Away from that sound. Away from that awful reminder of her last sight of Shirou.

 _Blood pouring from his eyes and ears, red so dark that it was almost indistinguishable from the mud of Angra Mainyu. His shirt and pants littered with gashes from prior battles with Saber and Berserker. But where there should have been open flesh or blood gushing from his wounds, there was instead what on first glance appeared to be a sort of armor. It was only on a closer look that it was obvious what was truly there. Blades. In his wounds and under his skin, blades were growing, grinding, skewering his body from within._

 _"My body is made of blades." She'd thought it was stupid when she first heard it. Who came up with such a stupid aria when fighting? The truth was far more horrifying._

 _"Shirou? Shirou?" She shook his body, repeating his name trying to elicit some reaction from him. "Please be alright!"_

 _And then Shirou said his last words._

 _For Illya, it would've been better if he cursed her. If he'd just quietly died, or given her last words to pass on to Taiga, perhaps she would've been fine. Instead he'd smiled at her. A genuine smile full of joy, like the one she would give to Kiritsugu when playing with him before he left. A smile as if he had been the one who had been saved._

 _"You're…guahah…alright, Illya?" Blood welled through his mouth, the swords growing in his throat as they cut off his lungs. "I'm….uah….glad."_

 _Emiya Shirou died. And Illyasviel von Einzbern was all alone._

 _Her father had abandoned her, her mother had died, and the Einzbern family had sent her to die. Her only family was the boy who she'd met two weeks ago. The boy she'd been convinced her father had abandoned her for. And the only person in the world who cared about her was now dead._

 _A terrible resolution filled her, as she looked at the glowing tendrils of the Grail. She still had a wish. She was hearing the Dress of Heaven. And so she wished…_

"I…want to see my onii-chan again." She murmured softly to herself, as the shadows of the Red Keep seemed to softly twist-and-turn, stealing the light of a mid-summer's day, doubts disturbing her mind as she wondered about the future.

* * *

 ** _2 years later…._**

 _The sky was burning._

 _It was a night unlit by the moon, but the inferno provided all the light one could wish for and more._

 _Lyanna Stark screamed as she was bound by invisible chains, unable to move, and unable to stand. Only able to watch as the mud on which the fire burned raced through the city, laying low everything in it's path._

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She sobbed. "I didn't know." _But being sorry didn't change the fate of those she was apologizing to._

They had left messages with the Maesters for her father and Brandon. She had asked Petyr to send the message to her brother in case he came by Riverrun as a back-up. How come they had all thought she was kidnapped? She hadn't done anything wrong. _But neither did the thousands who have died, a dark voice spoke in her mind._

 _The city was a monument to human ingenuity. Bran the Builder would have begged for lessons from its creators. The tallest buildings outstripped the wall in height, but far more intricate in design, with gleaming windows of glass and rivulets clearly designed for some unknown purpose._

 _But it did not matter before the fire, as all of it burned. Movement started at the top of each structure. Slowly. Ponderously. Enough that there might have been hope. Then bits and pieces broke off, catching fire as they fell almost like shooting stars, but far more malevolent in their end result_

 _Then everything came crashing down. And a cacophony of voices, forming a chorus of the burning and damned, screaming, pleading to their gods._

 _Save me. Help me. I don't want to die! Their pleas asked for a savior or a hero, someone who could take their pain away._

 _A mother, trying to carry her two infant children to safety, holding them in her arms to prevent the flame from touching, laid low by a falling piece of debris. All three screamed as the flames devoured them. Was it mercy that the end was quick?_

 _A boy, barely on the edge of manhood, helped his father at the barrier of the flames. They were running but not quite quick enough. The flames reached them, and they became torches, screaming even they as they continued to walk, holding on for the futile hope that if they kept moving, there might be a respite._

"It's not your fault," Rhaegar had said. His face had taken on the same expression he used when talking of Harrenhal. "No one could have expected my father to be mad enough to burn both your father and brother." _But because you wanted your Silver Prince, they both burned._

 _Her father. Screaming as the fire burned him. Flesh charring, skin blackening, and the smell of cooked meat ripe for carrion and maggots. Looking at her, judging her, holding her responsible. Lyanna's apologies meant nothing to him, and before the flame took his eyes, she only saw condemnation in them._

 _Then it was her brother. His broad shoulders which used to carry her when she was a child only provided more fuel for the flames._

 _On and on it went. Rhaegar burned. Then it was sweet and sickly Elia. Her children little Rhaenys and baby Aegon. Bannermen of her father who had always laughed at her japes. And nameless strangers beyond the numbering._

 _All dead. All burned. All because of her._

"No more….please…no more…I can't do anything…I'm sorry….sorrysorrysorry sorrysorrysorry," she sobbed, choking on them in her throat, until one last sight struck her silent.

 _She saw him. He was a boy, no more than five or six namedays old. His hair was sun-kissed as the wildlings called it, with eyes of a strange, almost-golden colour. Marching forward, he continued on, with a one-sided determination to try and survive._

 _And despite his appearance, Lyanna knew who he was instantly._

 _Flames edged onto his body, but he continued to press on. His eyes, initially crying and full of fear, became empty and dull. As the screams began to silence, his steps, once stumbling and full of purpose, and abrupt and mechanical, like one of the automatons she'd seen made by a Maester._

 _Lyanna began to hope as the screams died out. Her **son** was still alive. He could still survive. His body was littered with burns, but he continued to press on. As the flames around him died out, he continued to walk on._

 _She didn't care how broken he was from what had happened, if he survived, then that was enough for her._

 _But like all her wishes since she'd left with Rhaegar, it was for naught._

 _Her baby fell like a puppet with its strings cut, wordlessly to the ground, not making a sound of pain or a cry of depair. He lied on the ground facing the sky, waiting to die._

"Why bother showing this to me!" She screamed. "I already know it's my fault, what do you expect of me!"

 _The flames which had died out suddenly flared up again. Stretching into the sky, a world made of blood and fire, built on the ashes of men. The flames raced towards her, covering and bathing her like a long-lost lover as she screamed in pain, with one last set of words engraved on her memory._

 ** _"Fire cannot harm a dragon. But for a dragon to be born, life must pay for death."_**

 _She fell into the darkness._

* * *

 ** _Tower of Joy – End of Rebellion_**

Eddard Stark looked at the child in his arms. _My nephew, all that's left of Lyanna_.

They'd found him in the fire, squalling in the burnt arms of his dead mother. Of the three men still alive, none of them knew why Lyanna had chosen to burn herself alive in her birthing bed.

 _Promise me, Ned. Promise me._

A promise made as he looked at her through the slits of the barred doorway, as her skin began to burn and blacken.

His hands stroked the child's face, dark hair and grey eyes. He was thankful for that, things would have been much more difficult if the child had taken more after Rhaegar.

Howland Reed sat in shock on the ground, while Arthur Dayne looked at Ned with an intent expression.

"Will you protect the king?" Ser Arthur asked.

"I see no king, only my natural son." Responded Ned. He kept his hand near the hilt of his sword and waited for a response.

A second passed, then a minute as all three men watched each other. Arthur nodded, dropped his hand, and said, "You are more capable than I in this regard. And I am too well-known. May I at least know his name?"

"His name will be Jon. Jon Snow. He will grow up with my own children as another brother, safe and protected with his mother's family."

 _Initiating Soul Transference Process – Emiya Shirou_

 _Hypothesizing Concept of Origin_

 _Origin: Sword – Successful Install_

 _Aligning Element: Sword – Successful_

 _Imitating Experience of Growth_

 _Sympathizing with Emotional Feedback Model_

 _ERROR! Warning: Invalid Personality Model. Multiple Reality Marbles detected, are you sure this is a human?_

 _ERROR! Warning: Corrupt Data. Conflicting growth experiences. May cause stability errors when utilizing U*limite* Bl**e W**ks_

 _Root Override accepted. Safety Protocols removed. Potential Errors in Transfer Process_

 _Transfer Process Complete._

 _Draconic Heritage Found - Prana Reactor Activated._


	2. Stark Perspective

**AN: screwed up the formatting, hence the re-upload.**

 **Chapter 2 – A Stark Perspective**

 ** _288 AC - 5 Years after King Robert's Coronation_**

 _There's nothing wrong with trying to save people! –Emiya Shirou_

* * *

"Do you understand what you did wrong, Jon?" The Lord of Winterfell leveled a steely gaze at his son, making clear the seriousness of his question.

The snow rained down upon both of them, forming a blanket of corpse-white. The ladle, held in Jon's hands next to the cauldron, still steaming with the juices of meat and broth was all too clear against the backdrop. His guilt was evident for his father to see.

"I just wanted them to not go hungry!" Jon argued. True, it was wrong to steal from the stocks. But it was winter, and some of the small-folk were beginning to go hungry. "We have more than enough food for all of us!"

"Robb, did you help Jon in this also?" Ned Stark turned to the side as he a heard the crunch of small steps on the snow, revealing his eldest son and Jon's half-brother, with a sheepish grin on his face and hands scratching his Tully Red hair.

 _I can only hope that Sansa will not grow to be as impetuous or trouble-making as these two_ , he thought, _else I might need to send one or both of them to foster with one of the Noble Houses amongst my lords_.

"Jon, perhaps you misunderstand me." Ned continued, "I do not disagree with your **goal** of making sure they do not go hungry. As a Stark and the Lord of Winterfell that is also one of my most cherished goals and heaviest of responsibilities. The problem however, is how you went about it when you and Robb elected to steal food from the stores."

"But we have more than enough food! Jon's right, there was no harm in giving some out" argued Robb in impassioned defense of his younger half-brother. _Already thick as thieves, I hope they can become as close as Robert and I were_.

"Has one of you been gifted by the Olds Gods with visions while I was not looking? If you are certain that there is no harm, one of you must be able to tell me how long this winter will last. One more year? Two years? Or will it be even longer, perhaps five to ten years?"

 _Their goals were admirable, but the North is harsh, and good intentions are not enough for good results in the North_. Robb was the first to realize where his father was leading the conversation, face shifting into an ashamed frown, while Jon was still leveling a defiant look at him, grey eyes glinting like steel against the snow.

"So tell me my sons. We have enough in our stocks right now for one more year of Winter, two if we ration it further within the next few months. The rationing of our stocks is the first line of defense in ensuring that the smallfolk do not go overly hungry. After that, men who are of age will leave into the snow, telling their families that they are "hunting", hoping to spare their families a mouth to feed. You might have made some people happier today, but how many will you condemn to death or mourning for loved ones if you repeat this again next week or next month?"

Jon's eyebrows scrunched together in what was clearly a baffled expression. _Perhaps they are too young to understand this lesson_.

"Think upon what I have said, both of you may yet be boys, but you will one day be men. Upon the morrow, I will inquire again as to whether or not you have learned the lesson."

With those last words, Eddard Stark strode away and into Winterfell, the snow covering his tracks in the ground like a ghost passing through.

"Well," Robb genuflected. "On the whole, I think that turned out quite well!"

* * *

 _He'd been walking through a building that had been cut from some material that was not stone or wood. It had been of incredible symmetry, with perfectly cut squares of the material to fill out the shape of the structure, every cut and turn of the not-stone perfectly conveying the intent and flow of the builder._

 _"You should summon your Servant soon, Onii-chan" a beautiful white-haired girl had remarked as he walked at night. He wondered who that was—no he knew who she was—she was important—she was [ERROR – Corrupt Data]_

 _He'd continued walking home, and then went to the shed just like he did every night. He sat down, grabbed a bar made of [ERROR – Incorrect Path] and made himself ready. A metal gear, a [Unreadable] barrel, cocked in his mind, and slammed forward. Pain, fire, and heat all raced through his back, along his spine, making him think that his eyes were about to explode, that he would faint from the pain. But he did not, tiny lances of molten lava felt as if they spread out from the center of his back, expanding to his ribs, his stomach, then arms and legs. On and on it went, the feeling of being stabbed, cut, burned, and paralyzed._

 _Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he had created his_ _ **magic circuit**_ _._

 ** _Too slow_** _, he thought to himself. He needed to practice more if it kept on taking so long._

 _He remembered what his father had told him,_ _ **To be a magus is to walk with death**_ _._

* * *

Despite his father's best efforts, Jon Snow knew that there was something wrong with him in the eyes of most.

It was not the taint of his birth. Though some of the Great Lords and Lady Catelyn Stark might look on him with disapproval staining their gaze, it truthfully never bothered him. Though he would forever be barred from inheritance and branded with the name of Snow, Jon had never found himself caring too much about that.

Nor was it the lack of motherly affection in his life. He had never had affection of the maternal sort, how was it possible for the lack thereof to bother him?

No, what was wrong with him was that none of these matters affected him in the slightest.

The charitable amongst the servants and functionaries of Winterfell attributed this to the Stark hardiness. Those of less kind disposition whispered that it was the curse of bastardry, that his mind had been born wrong as a curse by the Old Gods at the dishonoring of Ned Stark's vows, that where fire and blood should heat a man's heart, only ice flowed in his.

Jon smiled as he put the finishing touches on his sweeping of the rooms. The castle staff had been somewhat put about at having their lord's son, bastard or no, aiding them with their duties, but they had grown used to the sight over the past year.

His father had been concerned if this was something his lady wife had put Jon up to, and remained as-yet skeptical of Jon's claims that it was of his own will.

For Jon, the happiness with which he volunteered to assist even the lowest of servants in their duties only served as proof that something with his mind had been struck wrong at his birth to those who maintained their suspicion.

 _Why must there be something wrong with me because I want to help people?_ He knew it was abnormal perhaps the extent to which he took it, but surely it was an exaggeration when some said that it felt like he was not altogether human.

He smiled at the maids as he walked by and made sure to inquire if there was anything else he could help with.

 _Last night, the dream was different. I wasn't on fire._

Jon made his way to his room. That explosion of pain, he remembered that it had been the precursor to all of his spells. If he could do that again, then maybe he could do magic. And if he had magic…maybe he could change the world. He restrained himself from rushing to test out his theory—he might trip and stumble someone in the tight confines of the castle if he walked in haste.

He sat down, folding his legs beneath him on the bed, arms inclined on his knees, and closed his eyes.

"Trace On." The metal device, no—the **gun barrel** , pulled open, then slammed forward.

Waves of energy slammed through Jon's body, eyes opening wide in surprise as he looked at his arms and legs. Lines of energy raced through him.

 _It hurt much less than in my dream. Does that mean I did it wrong?_ He wondered. Jon remembered at the very least that magic was dangerous. _What if I'm almost killing myself each time I use it? I don't have a teacher like I did in the dreams…_

Such thoughts didn't matter, Jon decided. He looked around the room and saw the broomstick he had been using earlier. Focusing his stare at the broom handle, he tried the [Structural Grasp] spell that he'd remembered from last night.

 _Wood carved by Bethany, first owner was Farlen for use in the Kennels of time 2.808 years, dogs repeatedly damaged the straws, Farlen repaired 89% of the straws and sheared 11.5% of the handle length, favored stroke technique is an inverse rotation starting from dominant hand…._

Jon moved his arms to align the handle with what he'd just read _/thought/experienced/understood_ and realized that he was able to clear the floor at almost twice the pace he normally swept thanks to the more efficient movement.

 _Could I use this to be a great servant? By knowing all their techniques and the best of their abilities, I could maybe do the work of an entire castle's cleaning staff! That meant he could make enough coin to pay for the food and housing of the same amount of peoples' families!_

Jon calmed himself. _I have plenty of time, I should learn all of my capabilities, and then I will decide._

After all, he was being hasty to think about being a maid. Maybe he could become a great cook? Or perhaps a blacksmith? Of course he could use this with swords, but unless he had a magical sword, it was hard for Jon to see this making that large of a difference.

Pleased with his work for the day, Jon immediately began planning for what he would experiment on next. This magic thing was far easier than it had looked in his dreams!


	3. Watching, Waiting

**AN: screwed up the formatting, hence the re-upload.**

 **Chapter 3 – Watching, Waiting**

 ** _6 months later…_**

Using magic was much, much harder than Jon had ever planned on it being.

He ducked underneath the swipe of a blade, sprinted forward, and barely brought up the hilt on his right to block a blow which sent him careening sideways and off-balance. The next blow from Ser Rodrik came over the top, at a slight diagonal forcing him to hold firmly in place, but thankfully giving him the momentum to grasp the footing firmly underneath his feet.

Rodrik grinned, his training sword held to the side and stuck to the ground in a show of careless nonchalance, backhand facing Jon to make it clear to all what he thought.

"Impressive, but you're staying far too much on the defensive. It doesn't matter how good your technique is if your opponent sets the initiative." He taunted.

Jon narrowed his eyes. _I can only stay on the defensive as long as he remains out of my reach_. He _looked_ at the wooden sword held in Rodrik's hand and [ _grasped]_ the recent history, the timing of the slashes, and the beginnings of his attack patterns, feint placements…

 _70% frequency of cross or overhead cut from right-hand side. Stab utilized as a feint and only when arm is already partially extended. Horizontal slash frequency increases to 80% within 3.790 feet of torso…_

He sent prana circulating to his legs and _pushed_ , spraying mud and snow behind him in a brown shower. Sword held overhead, he relied on Rodrick's quick parry to halt his momentum, from which he dropped and moved his sword downwards and to the left in preparation to cleave across his opponent's chest.

 _Not fast enough. My arms can't take more reinforcement._ He'd discovered that a few weeks prior with a broken arm, though luckily it had healed quickly. Old Man Luwin had given him queer looks afterwards though.

At this short of a range, Rodrik elected to slam his hilt towards Jon's head instead of trying to ineffectually slash downward. As the hilt came closer, Jon had a moment of inspiration.

Aligning both of his arms on the hilt, he flared his prana. _[burst]_. The blade accelerated, smashing upwards as fast as lightning, impossible for Rodrick to block.

Drawing upon his years of experience, the weapons master leaned backwards buying precious time to let his blade sleep across his arm, intending for the wood of his sword and metal of his armor to fully block the impact.

But it was not enough. Jon's blade was striking with great force. Far, far greater force than should have been possible for even a man grown, let alone a child of only six years. It was too much for Rodrick's lone arm to bear, and he _knew_ that the blunt impact alone might be enough to severely injure him if he wasn't lucky.

The bastard of Winterfell lost his balance from the force of his swing—with the left foot spiraling in mid-air and his arms overextended skywards.

 _You must keep your shoulders centered against your opponent if you want power in your strikes, Shirou_

Shirou- no, Jon, _knew_ that he had lost the battle. Rodrik would now be able to block his blow, and there was nothing he could do to change the course of the battle. _Unless I could change my direction in mid-air,_ I—he did not have time to complete those thoughts.

Rodrick parried to the side, stepped forward, and scythed his blade against Jon's hand, disarming him. Not wasting a moment, he immediately capitalized to finish the spar. Twisting his hips and whipping the blade with both hands, he smashed the flat against Jon's head, knocking him to the ground and finishing to the fight.

 _P***et*c a* alw***, **iya Sh*r**_

Jon's head swirled with confusion not just from the last strike, but also with the pressure in his head that started when he [ _grasped_ ] Rodrik's swords and fight patterns. Though better than few months ago, Shirou- _no, my name is Jon_ 's mind felt like it was pierced and run through by a mist of tiny knives, able to feel a vague remnant of something important but unable to see or understand the finer details in the distance.

Rodrik returned the sword hilt-first to Jon, waiting for him to recover enough to take it in hand again. His face, almost always set in a stern look of indifference, held an unusual air as his eyes focused on Jon, searching with intent for something Jon didn't know.

"Sword. Sword. Sword." One of the maesters' ravens crowed overhead. They always seemed to like Jon, occasionally following him and pestering him for sweetmeats or corn whenever he had some extra from the kitchens.

Rodrik tossed Jon's blade back to him, and motioned for Jon to come again.

* * *

 _Mother will not be pleased,_ thought Robb.

He was not yet of age to appreciate the distinctions between "trueborn" and "baseborn", but he could tell that whenever Jon did well in something, it fanned his Mother's ire like oil upon a fire. Though a fire would eventually burn out.

Even worse was when Jon did well in something that Robb did not excel in. So far with their lessons, it had not been an issue.

In matters of administration, sums, and business, both Jon & Robb had done well. When it came to diplomacy and etiquette however… Robb suppressed a laugh as he remembered the futile attempts to drill Jon in manners beyond the most basic.

When it came to weapons however, there was no competition. Robb was talented for his age. A natural with a horse, and as far as could be expected for a child, naturally skilled with a lance and sword. And he was no slouch with a bow.

Jon had no comparable talent with the horse or riding. He was fair at best.

But with a sword, Jon fought as well as any man full-grown, let alone an actual child of his age. And with a bow… _Has anyone ever seen my younger brother miss, or is it just a rumor spread by wagging tongues?_

Robb sighed, and hoped the Old Gods would give his mother something else to focus on. It was decidedly unpleasant whenever his mother grew angry over Jon.

* * *

"I want him gone, Ned!"

"Catelyn, please calm down— "

"I have been calm for over six years! I was calm despite your dishonoring of me and keeping your son close at-hand over the past six years despite the threat he is to your other children. I remained calm even when you set that he be educated above his station with the same tutors as Robb and Sansa!"

She took a pause to regain her breath at this point, striving to regain her lost composure. She folded her arms underneath her chest as she held her back straight and made a firm look with her Lord Husband.

"Husband, have you ever seriously given thought to how Jon threatens the position of your other children?"

Ned winced, a crack appearing in his normally unflappable visage.

 _Her blood is running hot. Catelyn must be truly wroth if that is how she addresses me-_

"Catelyn, I cannot fault you for disliking Jon. But do you not think it somewhat outrageous the idea of him stealing the inheritance from his brothers and sisters? Jon is not that sort of boy, nor will he become that sort of man."

 _I cannot fault her for bearing no love for Jon, but she surely has enough reason to see the truth of this._

"And you still do not understand the actual problem Ned! It **does not matter** whether or not Jon himself would seek out the position. "

 _My husband must see clearly the consequences of his acts and permissions, a man's heart is not enough to stand against the world._

"When your Lords see Jon, today they see a bastard. They also see Ned Stark's son who was raised at Winterfell. They see Ned Stark's son who could beat grown men when he was a child! They see Ned Stark's son who if his brothers or sisters were to have an unfortunate accident, would be rightful Lord of the North."

She held up her hand in a gesture of pause to Ned and continued on, "I will not debate the character of _your son_ with you. But neither you or I can see the future in ten, twenty, or thirty years. And in those years to come, will they still see Jon as a bastard? Or will they see him as another Stark, with a deserving claim on Winterfell proved by martial skill?"

"Neither you or I can see the future, my lord husband. Perhaps none of this will come to pass, but do you not remember your words which are now mine also? _Winter is Coming_. And when winter comes, will you have it prepared such that Jon becomes a focal point of discontent lords and vassals?"

"He is my blood!" yelled Ned, his composure breaking and flaring in a torrent of words. "I will not cast him out! I promised-" _Promise me, Ned_.

"Then ensure he is safe. Send him to stay with one of your trusted bannermen. Make sure he is safe and provided for. But do not raise him at Winterfell where all the Lords will grow to think of him as just another one of your sons! I have said my piece, now have a good night, Lord Stark."

Catelyn turned about-face, the frown of discontent marring her normally radiant features, and as he watched her fire-kissed hair swaying in time with her stride away, Ned found himself unable to say anything.

 _The Gods help me, but she has the right of it._

If Jon had merely been skilled or talented at such pursuits, Ned could have parried the thrust of Catelyn's arguments.

But Jon was not _merely_ talented. He clearly had the ability to be the finest warrior in the Seven Kingdoms since Cregan Stark or Aemon the Dragonknight had walked the land. He had beaten full grown men-at-arms in spars frequently in the past month, and his skills only seemed to still be growing. And with a bow, Ned had never seen the like. Not once had Jon ever missed a target. So unnatural was Jon's skill that Ned suspected the greatest fault in his Archery skill was the lack of a bow that could match Jon's ability.

 _The Blackfyre Rebellions started because some of the Great Lords desired a Warrior Prince over a Scholar King._ And though Catelyn did not say it, Ned knew that the strength of the Wolfsblood in Jon's visage worried her. Would the bannermen regard Robb as being too much a Southron in comparison to his baseborn brother?

Rodrik had told Ned at a recent dinner of his suspicion that Jon would be able to beat him in a fight by the time he passed his eighth name day at latest. _Not even three winters seen, and he could beat one of the better warriors in Westeros._

With Cat gone, his thoughts turned to another, more worrying matter with Jon. He dared not every say anything to indicate his thoughts upon it, being far too dangerous for any to know.

 _My nephew has dragon dreams. Fire and Blood fill his mind where most children have simple night terrors. Worse, they have scarred his mind._

It had been all Ned could to avoid giving away any of his internal panic when he discovered the truth. Jon had told Ned of his dreams, where he'd walked through fire as thousands died around him. _The blood of the Forty is said to have been able to dream of both the past and future. Is the fire the war perhaps? Or is it some great disaster still yet to come_. Starks could certainly never be accused of dreaming so much about fire. The blame clearly lied with the now-dead dragons. All dead except for the last two children of the late Queen Rhaella.

Just as large of a problem though were how the dreams affected Jon's mind. Though Jon was polite and kind, he did not act as a normal child had. Ned had never seen Jon laugh or cry. He had broken his arm a few months earlier and only Rodrik Cassel's sharp eye had caught the injury.

 _Have I failed so badly to care for my nephew that he does not think anyone will care if he is injured or hurt? And without motherly affection of any sort, his only close confidante is Robb. No place for a child whose spirit must be healed._

Ned decided upon his course. Jon would have the best chance of growing happily if he sent him to one of his bannermen. He would ensure that Jon and Robb visited each other frequently, and that they would still be raised as brothers. But hopefully the space away from Catelyn would be good for Jon, as well as help secure the stability of the North in the long-term. The chance to make friends outside the shadow of his birth would also hopefully give the boy the chance to develop with happiness as a child should.

 _Howland would be willing to care for Lyanna's child. He has never forgotten the debt of Harrenhall. But would it be the best for Jon?_

Howland's ways were of the North, but it was the marshes of the Neck, not Winter plains and mountains. Perhaps it was whimsical, but Ned dearly wished that Jon grow up the same way Lyanna and other Starks had.

 _I cannot place such a point of vulnerability with the Boltons. Manderly and Umber are also too prominent. And Manderly is of the Seven, a bastard being raised by them could be taken as an insult. They must be of unquestioned loyalty and trustworthiness, but not a point of concern for the balance amongst my bannermen._

The Dustins of Barrowtown, Tallharts of Torrhen's Square, and Glovers of Deepwood Motte made the most sense. Ned considered them against each other.

All were prosperous enough lords that Jon could be assured to lack for nothing in regards to upbringing and education. Not overly powerful and capable of altering the balance amongst the vassals of House Stark. And unlikely to be insulted by a request to foster a bastard.

Lady Dustin might yet resent him for the death of her husband, but she could be trusted for her loyalty to House Stark. And the Tallharts and Glovers were amongst the first and most loyal bannermen of House Stark for thousands of years.

He began writing. _Promise me, Ned._ Lyanna's voice, always at the back of his mind. His guilt made manifest for all his failures. _I promise, dear sister._ Ned would keep his vows, and this could only help.

One year later, the Greyjoy Rebellion began.


End file.
